


Jackknife

by ladderax (allnuthatchforest)



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Angst, Docking, Frottage, Infidelity, M/M, Pool Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-18
Updated: 2011-08-18
Packaged: 2017-10-22 18:39:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/241269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/allnuthatchforest/pseuds/ladderax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur and Eames have broken up and moved on. Except that they haven't moved on. Sometimes their not-moving-on happens at the workplace, and sometimes it happens in hotel rooms. Here, it happens in a pool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jackknife

Arthur bends his knees and raises his arms over his head. Then he springs up and launches himself with barely a splash, his body briefly forming a long white crescent in the dim light. For a moment his finely-tuned muscles, his breath and all the other sounds and signals of Arthur's existence are swallowed by the water, and Eames is OK with that. It's a respite of sorts. He looks at the beaded strands of reflection in the water, feels the warm LA night breeze brush over his sweat-and-chlorine dampened chest and the wet fabric that clings to his erection.

The dive was quick and clean, nothing fancy. A jackknife, if Eames remembers the names correctly. Arthur used to show off for him whenever they ended up at a pool, all sorts of flips and corkscrews, all manner of things backwards and forwards. Arthur had told him, back when they told each other those sorts of things, that he'd been an Olympic-grade diver before an injury had sidelined him for good, forced him to find other things to do with his body.

A slick dark head bobs back up at the other end of the pool and drifts toward where Eames is perched on the pool's edge. "Come on," he says, almost cheerful, grabbing at Eames's ankle. Then he's got his hands on Eames's knees, working Eames's legs apart. Out of force of habit, Eames's slippery thighs clasp his torso. He draws the line at wrapping his calves around Arthur's back.

"You know I hate swimming," Eames grumbles. But Arthur clamps his hands around Eames's waist and pulls him forward, and he slides into the water.

Eames wishes he didn't know what to do in this situation. But he knows exactly what happens when Arthur's chest heaves like that, when Arthur's mouth is open and Eames can see his tongue nestled inside it like a soft and harmless thing. _Like_ being the operative word.

It's ridiculous, Eames knows, but he consoles himself with the thought that he isn't allowing himself to take _everything_ he wants from Arthur. If he's seized with the desire to touch the patch of dark hair over his breastbone, he doesn't let himself do it. If he wants to start these proceedings with a gentle kiss to Arthur's lower lip, instead he fits his mouth onto Arthur's tightly, partly so he doesn't have to see Arthur's mouth anymore, or hear his breath, loud, elated, anticipating.

"You OK with doing this in public?" Arthur breaks away from the kiss to ask. It sounds like he's subtly mocking Eames.

Eames sighs and glances upward. "Arthur, you _know_ what I meant by that. It meant no foolish and unnecessary risks. If you really want to be that fucking fussy about it, then we should even consider home--well, our homes--more or less public, for people like us, people who know the kinds of people we know."

Arthur grins and shoves him back against the wall. The concrete edge presses into his spine, and he's suddenly aware that anyone--at least anyone with a keycard to the roof of this hotel--could walk in on them right now. But he feels Arthur's thigh beneath his hard cock, and suddenly it becomes a little harder to think about anything but that pleasure scolding him more ferociously with every stroke. Arthur's fingers are wiggling Eames's swim trunks out of the way. Eames feels the cool water bubbled from the jet rush over his cock, and he feels profoundly silly and small, like a little child first discovering shame.

Arthur cradles their cocks together and begins to pump. Eames closes his eyes, wringing the stinging water out of his eyelids, and tries to concentrate on the sensation, and the idea, of his foreskin sliding against the smooth swell of Arthur's length. He can't quite dredge up his old love for the act. There was a time when he'd look at Arthur and crave the touch of Arthur's cock to his, because he knew it was a feeling only he could access. And before Eames, no other man--to the best of his knowledge--had ever pulled his foreskin over the tip of Arthur's cock; no other man had ever reveled in the tight sticky almost-too-much kiss of head and head as he stroked and stroked their joined cocks and listened raptly for the notes of urgency in Arthur's moans.

That was before Eames. Eames didn't want to think about the _after Eames_.

Arthur's tugging faster and faster, and Eames murmurs dumb things like _don't stop_. Arthur leans forward and sucks on Eames's neck. _Maybe it's just for balance_ , Eames thinks bitterly. He shudders at the fuzzy rub of Arthur's leg hair against his own legs, awful in its deliciousness. He still can't get enough of running his hands up beneath Arthur's shorts and petting that dark wiry hair, that unsmoothness that he had not quite expected when he'd first seen Arthur's body.

He comes all over Arthur's hands and cock, but the water dissipates it into a stringy cloud. Arthur's cock pulses against his raw softness not long after. He wants to pull away, let Arthur stand on his own. He wants to stroke Arthur's shoulders and kiss loving words into his throat as he orgasms.

He hasn't been able to make up his mind for the past year.

"You alright?" Arthur asks, seeking out his gaze. Arthur is pulling up his own swim trunks now, giving a little tug to the waistband of Eames's. "You seem a little out of it. I was thinking I should go back to my room, give Josh a call. You can come along if you want."

Eames shakes his head. "I don't think I will. Besides, didn't we agree we wouldn't say their names?"

"Shit," says Arthur. Expressions are hard to discern in this stark, contrasting light, which carves all sorts of unintended lines and angles into faces, but Arthur looks genuinely sorry. He lifts himself out of the pool and whips a towel around his waist.

"Arthur," Eames begins. What he wants to say is _Arthur, we can't work together anymore. I didn't even want to work with you this time because I knew we'd do this again, and I was right._

Arthur hesitates, then crouches by the pool. The sharp diagonal cuts of his hipbones jut above the towel's damp loose knot, and Eames longs to press his thumbs into them hard, hard enough to hurt.

"Eames," he says, a wary crack in his voice, "do you really still have feelings for me?"

"No," Eames says. "Of course I don't. We ended this for a reason. Why, do you?"

"No." Arthur turns around, shaking droplets out of his hair like a wet dog, and pulls a thin T-shirt over his head.

Eames steadies himself against the pool's edge for a moment.

 _Sometimes I wish you were lying when you say that,_ he thinks. _I wish you were lying. Like I am._

Arthur smiles and gives him a shy wave before the elevator door eclipses him. Eames sighs, looking at the wet prints of his elbows on the concrete where his arms had rested. All he wants to do is not be wet anymore, crawl between sheets too heavy for the climate, and sweat and sleep Arthur off, as if such a thing were possible. He's exhausted. But he knows that before he falls asleep he should probably give Mark a call too.


End file.
